


The Sum of My Pieces

by feardubh



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, CyberVale, Gen, M/M, Spaceships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feardubh/pseuds/feardubh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively titled: A Gear in My Pocket</p><p>
  <i>Two hours and five cups of coffee later Carlos is waiting by the curb for his pickup with a single rolling suitcase and a backpack. These contain nothing but his clothing, his résumé, and two paperback novels. He feels like he’s going to throw up or punch someone and it might be all the coffee or it might be the nerves so he just downs a tablet as the morning sun comes glimmering over the rooftops and prays that his ride hurries the hell up before he loses what little feeling he has left in his hands.</i>
</p><p>C.E.C.I.L. is an intelligence unit responsible for the control of a massive starship carrying some three billion people, and when his lead scientist goes missing a man is shuttled out from a nearby satellite station; his name is Carlos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, My Old Heart

**Author's Note:**

> listen while you read: [[1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AObC5VKMdEc)] [[2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQpvCiYVvOc)] [[3](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNqQC7R_Me4)]
> 
> This is rather hastily done and I will probably be making minor changes as I write the next chapter.

_Dr. Zambada_ , the letter begins.

It sort of goes downhill from there.

 _You are hereby summoned from the Ageus d7 colony to report to_ Otoshiana _station. As we are confident you are aware, the_ Otoshiana _is a class E vessel and requires many..._

He stops paying attention right about there after the sixth or seventh time through; the rest is really nothing more than enough presumptuous legal jargon to last him the next eight months at least. Carlos has never enjoyed lawyer-ese.

The point of the message is thus, that the head scientist of one of the massive ship’s most important management divisions has suddenly retired from his post, and they need someone to fly in as a replacement. Carlos can’t for the life of him figure out why he out of thousands has been selected- the letter assures him it is an honor and an uncommon opportunity, but really he wonders if it wasn’t simply that he is the nearest qualified scientist for the job. The next closest satellite is a good three month flight.

Whatever. Not as if he has a choice, really.

“So, Carlos. I know you’re leaving for the big assignment tomorrow, but do you wanna head out and grab a drink with us?”

That’s Sam-speak for “what’s wrong?”

Sam. Little bouncy dude from China, and Carlos’ best friend in the station- they went to school together and were seen around enough most people rolled their eyes and dryly praised the legalities that let those kinds in.

“Yeah. You know, just stressed out about this.” Carlos sighs softly and tries not to think about the fact that tomorrow morning he’s going to be leaving his only friend in the world behind on this stupid lump of space rock. “Sam, just between you and me I really don’t think that I’m the right person for this kind of thing- it seems like an executive position and lord knows I can’t do that, I just want to sit in my lab and build robots, Sam- all I want to do is be quiet and built my robots.”

He’s rambling and they both know this; Carlos rubs his face, and Sam just smiles cheerfully. “It’ll be fine,” he says, “you’re good at what you do. You’ll find a way.”

There’s still that nasty feeling of unease clawing in his stomach like sharp-nailed gremlin and it makes him want to down six buspirone tablets at once, but Sam is looking at him expectantly and he should probably go with him. For old time’s sake, or something like that.

They clock out early with a nod from their division’s head- “Congrats, Carlos. Good luck.”- and head to the nearest bar with a group of buddies and though they all take turns buying drinks and telling gently embellished stories Carlos’ heart really isn’t into it and after an hour or two Sam gives him that stupid puppy dog look and then turns to the guys and makes an excuse about early flights and how Carlos really should be getting back to his apartment.

He’s grateful. He really is. Makes a point of catching Sam’s arm as they hail one of the automated cabs bustling about the street. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sam grins. “I’ve always got your back.”

There’s probably more he should be saying, but the words just don’t come so Carlos nods and ducks into the docking vehicle.

The next morning Carlos wakes up with a crick in his neck and a taste like something died in his mouth, and when he realizes it’s three in the morning he flops back onto his rumpled bed and throws a hand over his eyes because it really ought to be illegal to wake up so damn early. After a minute or two of heavy sighing before the electric green glow of his alarm clock the scientist decides with the big trip ahead of him he’s probably going to be too wired to get back to sleep and sets the coffee maker to go while he takes a shower.

Admittedly, he is looking forward to new living arrangements. The research center funds his bed and board as part of his paycheck, but it’s one of those deals where they’ll only cover something really basic. At least it’s got hot water- Jace’s doesn’t.

As the scent of his daily caffeine fix fills the tiny apartment Carlos thoroughly takes advantage of the fact that unlike Jace his water heater is perfectly sound, pumping steaming glory through the rickety shower head. It’s nice, relaxing some of the tension from his shoulders and slicking his curls to his ears and neck and forehead.

He deliberates over his coffee, towel slung low about his waist in the dim light of the kitchen as he stares into his mug. Everything’s packed- Carlos wont be actually taking any of it with him but chances are the research center will rent out the apartment while he’s gone and it makes more sense to make it easier for their agents to move the entirety of his life’s possessions into storage. Fewer things will be broken that way.

Two hours and five cups of coffee later Carlos is waiting by the curb for his pickup with a single rolling suitcase and a backpack. These contain nothing but his clothing, his résumé, and two paperback novels. He feels like he’s going to throw up or punch someone and it might be all the coffee or it might be the nerves so he just downs a tablet as the morning sun comes glimmering over the rooftops and prays that his ride hurries the hell up before he loses what little feeling he has left in his hands.

When the automated taxi does arrive, a good fifteen minutes after the sun is up, he packs his bags into the trunk and slides in. With no need for a driver, the thing is just rows and rows of plastic bench seats.

It’s awfully lonely all by himself, but Carlos just snags a paper from the basket in the front as the vehicle pulls away from the curb.

From the airport, a bustling place full of slick silver airships, he’s to hop a flight that will last eighteen grueling hours. It will probably be one of the little jets, or, if he’s unlucky, a big cargo plane full of supplies for the station.

Carlos can’t stop the jitters as he strolls through the facility looking at planes. They’re massive and he can’t help but wonder what it would be like inside the belly of one of those huge starships- he’s pushing mid thirties. Ought to have been in one before the twenty fourth century rolled around, but no, there he stands clutching his boarding pass and his carryon backpack and thinking to himself that it’s funny that airlines are so uppity about how much your checked bag weighs when they let people through security with suitcases that wont fit in the overhead bins even if you lit them on fire first.

Not that pyromania makes bags smaller. Whatever. He’s nervous.

Carlos makes it through takeoff without throwing up and he takes that as a plus.

* * *

The plane dumps him off somewhere in the ninth circle of hell, locally known as Terminal B where he is greeted by a man who introduces himself as one Mr. W. Lawrence, who brings him to another taxi-like thing and assures him that it will be alright if he leaves his bags inside; they’ll be brought to his personal quarters sometime that afternoon by one of the buggies, whatever that means.

Carlos spent much of the flight reviewing the _Otoshiana_ station file- the ship is huge, built like the damn Death Star- it looks like a planet, with various sectors arranged in layers inside. There are millions of people on board and he’d been hoping to get a nice look at it as they cruised in, but the pilot kept their windows firmly shut.

He does, however, get a nice look at it from within; the cart steers him through several segments and then he’s supposed to get off in a little elevator like contraption that takes a whole entire room and puts it in freefall. Cuts out on the miles of buildings between the surface and his destination, but really just makes him want to vomit.

When the scientist steps out, looking much too pale and clutching his lap coat- curtesy of the old facility, and more of a comfort than a mark of authority around the _Otoshiana_ \- he finds himself in a big square room filled with nothing but a few rows of chairs and a man leaning up against the wall by the nearest exit.

For a moment, he does nothing, just sort of stands there because he may have a PhD and over a dozen robotic successes under his belt but he’ll be damned if he can’t walk up to a stranger so intently focussed on what looks to be the newest communication pad release. The design isn’t supposed to be publicly available for three more months.

After some five excruciating minutes he finally looks up. “Alright,” the man says, giving Carlos a critical once-over before returning to his commpad. He’s dressed casually, unlike almost everyone else the scientist has seen in the facility, in a plaid buttondown and ragged jeans tucked into worn leather boots and the guy looks like something out of every seedy biker porno Carlos hasn’t watched in the apartment while he was supposed to be compiling research. He even has the sleeve tattoos and a name badge reading Steve in stylized italics. “Name’s Carlserg. Zambada, right? I’m supposed ta show ya around.”

“Yes, that’s me,” Carlos nods, straightens his lab coat nervously, and offers a hand that is pointedly ignored as Steve pockets his pad and squints around the room. Then he pulls a folder from beneath his arm and hands it over; inside there is some paperwork, and an id card that already has his picture. Carlos slips that into his pocket.

“As I’m sure ya’d know if ya read yer file the ship has six sectors, or rings, each designated for a different purpose. The largest is the public sector which contains living spaces, private food, medical, and entertainment facilities, and the like. We’re in the research and development sector bordering the engineering sector. In the very center is the power source, and the outer shell is the high offices, pilots, and external engine rooms.”

As Steve speaks he motions for Carlos to follow and then takes off without waiting to see if he was keeping up- the scientist has to take two steps to for every long stride Steve makes as they enter the facility’s main buildings by a door marked with the __ logo emblazoned in black beside the violet of the science sector’s detail. On the side there is a little strip of metal dotted with LEDs that shift from red to green as Steve steps up, flashing an id clipped to his belt.

“Ya hafta do it too. Didn’t ya have a card in there?”

Carlos flushes six shades of scarlet as the man stares at him. “O-oh. Right.” He has no idea what the dude’s problem is, but he hates looking like an idiot in front of anyone, ever.

The lights fade to violet at his card, and then they step inside. It’s the sort of setup he could imagine, given enough time to get comfortable with the new place and a long billowing trench coat and maybe a pair of Matrix shades, feeling a bit like a set from an old insurgence movie, all bright lights and bustling whitecoats.

“This is the main floor,” Steve says as the doors shut behind them with the hiss of an airlock, and when he peers over his shoulder, Carlos can see the interior lights are red. Huh. Locked on both sides.

“What sort of security protects this sector? Is it just the locks?”

Steve tosses him a strange glance over his shoulder, and then pauses, pulling his card out for Carlos to see. “See that little symbol?” he asks, pointing to a red hologram glittering on the top corner. “That fluer de lis is the emblem of the guard corps on the ship. I am one a’ hundreds in this sector alone, led by Admiral Harlan. His station is thataway.” The man jabs one finger to the left and then makes a one-eighty and continues walking in the opposite direction. “Beyond that, there are locks on every door that take yer picture as they scan yer card, and it’s Cecil himself that lets yer sorry ass in every time.”

There’s something between the two, he can tell, but Steve doesn’t let up.

“Everyone’s passes’re different. Mine’s level three- security to pretty much everywhere in this sector except the admiral’s office and personal quarters. Yers should be level four-” here his mouth twists in a grimace- “which grants you to the rest of the facility, except some parts of the residential areas, which have private security, again governed by Cecil, and the pilot’s sector. They have level five, which lets them into their own spaces but not down here, or in engineering, or to see Kevin.”

“Kevin?” The name piques his interest; he saw it in the file several times. K. E. V. I. N.

“Mhmm. Nother ‘droid, like Cecil. He sits at the very core of the facility and controls a reactor sort of thing.” A look of concentration crosses his scowling face. “From what I know, it’s sorta like a manmade sun, only real small. No one up here has ever seen it- he has his own team of scientists and engineers.”

They keep walking for some time, and Steve shows him first the small residential area of their area, the medical station, and then the research labs that constitute most of the sector- think of it like a cell, where all the little parts have a job that’s different, but is similar to the processes of the body the cell’s in and don’t ya give me that look, I was a biologist before I came here. Outside of the labs Steve pokes his head into a sort of break room, filled with several laughing people and the mouthwatering scent of coffee.

“Here’s some of the assistants.” Steve purses his lips. “We got Dana, Richard, Paelo, Vithya, Chad- where’s Stacey?- Jerry, and Leland. Our current support staff, though they come and go like you wouldn’t believe.”

They react with varying nods and polite smiles- one lifts her coffee mug at Vithya and throws what must be shit-eating grin number 5 at him, so he can’t be off to a bad start. “Hey, Steve. Is this the new guy?” she asks archly.

“Yer new boss,” he shoots back with a smirk. “Best behave.”

Carlos, half hidden behind his guide, takes the smallest of steps forward and gives a little jerking wave. “Uh. Hello. I’m Dr. Zambada.”

Steve half turns, clamping his hand over Carlos’ shoulder and for a moment the scientist allows his annoyance to flicker across his face- it’s not much, but the guy takes one look and shuts his mouth around whatever asinine phrase he was going to say. Sometimes you just gotta look at a guy and realize that you read his file and it said he burned down an entire R&D center with nothing but a few wires and some abandoned chlorine in a cleaning cart at the tender age of eight.

It _had_ been listed as an accident, but still.

“Right. Everyone. I’m sure you’ll be seein’ him around, probably not in my company; this is yer new head scientist, Dr. Carlos Zambada-”

Carlos has never heard his name sound so ugly in someone’s mouth.

“-and I’m leadin’ him around the facilities. Then he’ll be doin’ his tests I suppose and then we’ll all meet up to discuss how things’re gunna work ‘round here.”

Vithya interrupts before he can continue.

“Dr. Zambada,” she says easily, brushing dark hair out of her eyes. “Steve here doesn’t really know what you’re supposed to be doing with Cecil today- I’ve drafted up a sheet for you to look at, if you’d like. He gets really excitable when he sees new people and he’s been really looking forward to meeting his new supervisor. It might be... a little overwhelming.” She looks at him with sympathy, as if she can see the barely trembling hands and the nervousness and the irony of the fact that one of the two books he packed is Stranger in a Strange Land, and he can’t help but smile back. “So,” the assistant continues, “here is a list of exercises you could consider running him through to keep him from biting your head off. It’s simple stuff, really, like what we do every month at the inspection, so he’ll be able to do it no problem.”

He accepts the document she hands him with a nod and a murmured thank you and a timid glance at Steve who looks like he wants to strangle something so Carlos nods to him too and gestures that he can continue the tour before he pisses himself in frustration.

The rest is sort of a blur of long white halls and the low hum of machinery until Steve brings him to what feels like the center of the sector- they’ve made a long, looping circle that ends outside of a dome shaped room in the most secure of the building’s he’s seen. They even had to go through security, emptying pockets in front of a metal detector and several frowning guards.

Steve steps back as Carlos flashes his card at the scanner and then punches in a code he finds stapled to his file; as the door opens the pair step inside.

The room is perfectly round, monitors built right into the walls and pulling read outs of things he doesn’t quite understand- it’s all coded. There are lights placed high in the curving ceiling in a ring of brightness around the solitary figure suspended from the center.

The diagrams in his briefing do no justice.

C.E.C.I.L. is gorgeous, all velvet black metal and sleek steel, accented here and there with a rich royal purple. His torso is held in a netting of thick cables anchored in the middle of his back by a sturdy mechanical arm; farther up, his legs disappear into the holding pod set into the ceiling.

It seems the android was currently in sleep mode, something the papers had characterized by a softly pulsing semicircle on his glass faceplate. It lookes like an eye, closed in slumber midway between the two violet-lensed cameras set into his head.

“Hey, Ceec. Wake up, botboy.”

Carlos arches a brow at that, at the familiarity of it, but the robot remains still.

“HEY. ASSHOLE. YER SCIENTIST IS HERE.”

The sleeping eye on his plate vanishes, and in its stead a pulsating exclamation point appears as C.E.C.I.L. shifts around to tilt his head and torso towards them.

“Hello, Mister Scientist,” he gives in what sounds like a murmur- the words are muffled slightly, speakers hidden somewhere beneath all that plating, but the interference does not detract from the effect which is that of one of those sonorous show hosts on late night television, back when broadband cable was the preferred form of media. Carlos wonders vaguely if the actor’s name is on record, or if the sounds are entirely generated by the machine.

“Uh.” comes his quiet, nervous answer. “Hello, my name is-”

C.E.C.I.L. nods, wriggling slowly like a fish until the supporting arm lowers him towards the men. “Doctor Carlos R. Zambada. Yes, I just pulled your file, and can I just say I am so excited to finally meet you! It’s been quite a while since Prejean left- no one has the clearance to see me anymore.”

Steve shifts, crossing his arms and looking distinctly annoyed. “Now, Cecil, that ain’t exactly polite-”

The android holds up one hand. “That’s enough, _Steve Carlsberg_. I have access to the core’s data for a reason, one that you’re probably not even _qualified_ to understand. I can access files as I please, and I _don’t_ want any of your lip today.”

For a moment it looks like Steve is going to just blow a gasket and start screaming, but he just huffs once and turns on his heel. “Good luck, _Mister_ Scientist,” he growls over his shoulder.

The automatic door whooshes open at his boot-stomping approach, shuts quickly behind him, and then they are alone.

* * *

“C. E. C. I. L. C _eee_ cil. Central Environment Control Intelligence Labyrinth.” He tests the words out, rolling the name on his tongue.

To Carlos’ surprise, C. E. C. I. L. brings his hands together in a wringing motion- if he were human, Carlos would say he was nervous. “Just Cecil, if you don’t mind. The rest is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

Carlos nods slowly. C. E. C. I. L. is nothing like he expected- his speech is natural, patterned with emotions and the sparks of a truly powerful intellect underneath the blasé prattling. He’s oddly human. “Yeah. Okay. Cecil it is, then. I’m- I’m going to begin basic diagnostics, okay? Please follow my instructions as best you can, and if you have any questions or don’t understand what is asked of you, please feel free to ask for clarification.” He waits for a nod from the android, and when it comes Carlos glances down at his clipboard and scans the list again before he begins.

They run through a series of exercises illuminating C. E. C. I. L.’s knowledge of the ship and its spaces, asking the positions of the main engine groups and the pilot’s station and the air purification system before moving on to C. E. C. I. L. and his own process. At Carlos’ request he descend from the nest of cables.

“Would you detach from the main leads and come walk around here for a while?”

The question is perfectly reasonable, but the violet eye on C. E. C. I. L.’s faceplate shivers and is replaced by a small exclamation point. “It violates protocol to remove myself from the system unless the _Otoshiana_ is experiencing an emergency,” he says hesitantly.

“Mhmm,” It’s the last thing they have to go over; motor functions, coordination. “It’s on my sheet, Cecil, I don’t think five minutes will hurt any.”

“Alright.”

The peaceful eye returns to his faceplate and a quiet hum of machinery begins as cables slowly detach from C. E. C. I. L.’s glimmering torso and slink up to the ceiling module until it is suspended upright only by a solitary energy feed and the jointed metal arm inserted into his back. As Carlos watches the arm extends and the android’s feet touch the floor; he reaches up slowly, like a diver removing their tank underwater, and unlatches the joint.

There was something odd about his movements, not grace or poise but something similar, shifted just a degree off. “Dismount looks good. Do you mind taking a few steps forward for me, Cecil?”

Wordlessly C. E. C. I. L. complies and it’s just a tiny bit terrifying to see this huge, faceless robot step so deliberately toward him and Carlos has to bite his lip and stare intently at C. E. C. I. L.’s knees to keep from backing away. Deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, why are you frightened? He breaks him down to his components; Carlos has built things like him with smaller processors.

Metal frame. Metal alloy frame, supported in key places by 154cm steel. Wires and cables threading through like arteries to his core, his cooling fans, his casing. Inside there will be sensors for localized temperature and humidity, and weight drops to orient him to the ground in case of visual failure. There is probably a camera and microphone setup hidden behind the lenses of his faceplate.

“Okay. What do you want me to do?”

“Uh.” Carlos swallows hard, and then gestures to the far wall. “Just, uh, just go over there, and then come back, alright? I really don’t think we need to do too much, just check to make sure your basic systems are good, because you’re, uh, you’re right. You probably wont have to detach any time soon.”

C. E. C. I. L. turns with a nod and makes a slow loop of the room; when he speaks his voice is quiet, almost nervous as he pauses at the far end and waits. “Am I doing okay?”

“You’re doing very well, Cecil,” he affirms with the faintest of smiles; there must be something to be said about an android in charge of an entire ship and everyone on it who was worrying about his walking. No no, I can keep a ball of metal floating in space with a good thirty million people alive on it, but this foot thing. Nahhh. “I would actually say your balance is exceptional of all the androids I have seen- much better, in fact, than any that I have worked on.”

“Oh,” he replies. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” C. E. C. I. L. stops before him, his eye pulsing very slowly. “My engineers spent years working on the designs, most of which failed. Your track record is actually much better; during your years at the facility it hosted a total of sixteen successful projects in the robotics field alone.”

That seems so forward; Carlos can’t help the embarrassed flush that spreads across his cheeks as he pulls his gaze to the floor as if suddenly finding a great interest in the tiles.

They are kind of nice, actually. A good quality ceramic, sort of a light white-gray and probably shatter resistant.

Uh.

“T-thank you, Cecil,” he stutters out at last, staring at his shoes as the android returned to his post and ascended into his cables.

“Of course,” C. E. C. I. L. replies. It sounds like he’s smiling. “Is there anything else I need to do?”

“Not at all. I’ll be. I’m going out now, I’ll be back in the morning.”

Carlos ducks his head and makes a hasty retreat.


	2. Where is My Mind?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos answers every sharp question she hurls to the best of his abilities, clamping half-forgotten memories in his stuttering lips and lacing his shaking hands together underneath the table so tightly the knuckles ache. Every new response has her scribbling notes on her papers- ink in the margins of his life as if he is a novel to be edited and slashed apart by her red pen. They cover his college years, internship, residency. His first robotic team. _Tau Volantis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen while you read: [[1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrdpliMfoAM)]
> 
> I don't really have much of a soundtrack for this chapter, but character themes will be uploaded to my tumblr soon. I'll provide a link sometime this weekend.

... **and oh** , **dear listeners** , **one final bit of news** - **no, the most important news I have to share as the alien sun so sweetly rises** , **somewhere beyond the hull of our ship. A new scientist arrived yesterday**. **His name is Carlos** ; **he has a square jaw** , **and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect** , **and we all hate, and despair, and love that perfect hair in equal measure**.

Carlos rolls over in his bed, staring straight up at the ceiling and wondering what the hell he’s doing with his life waking up to his name broadcasted on what seems to be the stations mass comm channel. The one reserved for the morning, noon, and night announcements. For a moment he’s still groggy and patting around for his locomm, which usually ended up somewhere in the bedsheets after late night musings sent to Sam, and then he remembers that the entire point of a local communicator is that it’s local, and Sam wont be using it to send him anymore stupid do-it-yourself science videos at four in the morning.

 **Carlos** , **perfect of face and figure** , **is to be the new head scientist governing the research and development sector in which I am stationed** , **and I must say I think he will make a wonderful addition to the team**.

Everyone on the station can hear that.

It’s sort of surreal.

 **After touring our section of the station Carlos stopped by for introductions and ran a few tests** , **ones I am surely not qualified to explain here and now**. **Let me leave you with this, as you wake to meet the new** **day** ; **he grinned** , **and everything about him was perfect** , **and I fell in love _instantly_**.

Carlos rolls over with a groan, flopping tiredly into his bedding and whining a muffled surrender into the pillows: “I just want to build my robots.”

After about twenty minutes spent muttering his life choices into the bed Carlos realizes there is the heavenly scent of coffee circulating the room- he peeks up from his nest of blankets with a hopeful expression and _oh sweet mercy_ the automatic machine has turned on and is halfway through pouring his first cup of the day.

He takes his daily buspirone with the second cup and by the third Carlos is actually ready to face the day, and so around the time the kitchen clock’s digits have shifted to 7:25 he’s puttering around his small living quarters.

There is much to be said about the new arrangements- for one, they’re much nicer than the center’s apartments, consisting of a kitchenette, living room, bedroom, and full bath. Carlos is already considering converting the front room into a study of sorts, seeing as he probably won’t be having many people over, but there isn’t much else he’d change about the set up. There’s running water and the carpet’s nice- what more can you really ask for, right? He’s even got a brand new personal computer still in the box waiting on his desk.

Carlos’ just digging through the kitchen’s tiny pantry- stocked with the essentials- when the little commpad inset in the door pings, alerting the scientist to a pending message.

It’s from one P. WINCHELL.

**[ALERT: DR. C. ZAMBADA]**  
 _Yesterday we allowed for a leisurely day to allow you time to settle in. Today will not be so relaxed, and you are expected to be ready for formal introductions in room 203 of the GTM building at eight o’clock sharp. Be prepared to present your past field experiences and your history at the various research centers of Earth sect, keeping in mind that your extensive file has already been compiled and reviewed by the board._

He dismisses the message with a vague gesture over the pad’s sensor, and trudges off to get dressed.

* * *

Pamela Winchell is one of the most terrifying people he’s ever seen, small in that steely kind of way with cheekbones sharp enough to cut, her white hair floating in a cloud around her head and her impossibly dark eyes narrowed, boring into his skull. The woman is frost incarnate. She rarely smiles, and when she does, it’s like a shark; cold and unimpassioned and hungry.

The meeting is held in a long board room, the sort one sees in movies when somebody important gets sued. Carlos takes the only available seat, at the tail; the rest are filled with a hodgepodge of people ranging from a man lounging in his silk shirt and shades to a graying guy in a hoverchair to a woman writing swiftly on a legal pad though they haven’t yet begun.

She introduces those around her one by one, no change in her inflection indicating her feelings towards them: Peters, Leroy, Eisenberg, Hart, Vansten, Al-Mujaheed, Thurgood. There is one man she neglects to mention, sitting at her right, and he appears not to take offense. There is also one other empty seat, to her left.

It seems his entire life has been observed, recorded, cataloged, reviewed, annotated, scrutinized, and otherwise dissected; folders lay open before her on the glossy tabletop dating from his preschool years. They know about every teacher who instructed him, every school he attended, each time his family moved. Every science fair project. Every laboratory fire. There are even printouts of the webcomic he published when he was fifteen.

They have been very thorough.

But not thorough enough for Winchell’s taste, it seems.

Carlos answers every sharp question she hurls to the best of his abilities, clamping half-forgotten memories in his stuttering lips and lacing his shaking hands together underneath the table so tightly the knuckles ache. Every new response has her scribbling notes on her papers- ink in the margins of his life as if he is a novel to be edited and slashed apart by her red pen. They cover his college years, internship, residency. His first robotic team. _Tau Volantis._

Eventually the questions stop coming, and she sits in her stiff-backed chair for what feels like a lifetime considering the entirety of his story over the rims of her glasses, flicking through pages and shuffling them about.

“Alright, Zambada.”

Surely everyone in the room can hear him swallow. “Y-yes ma’am?”

“I suppose that is all I need to know. For now.” Her tone is imbued with threats. McDaniels sighs, picking at his business-casual button down. Peters, a grandfatherly man, shifts uncomfortably and looks as if he wishes the meeting to be over already.

He’s in charge of the entire agricultural sector. Probably has a lot of better things to do than interview one little scientist.

It’s weird to think about how, with so little ceremony, he’s now ranked with these big names just because he’s going to be in charge of C.E.C.I.L and the android’s work. Eisenberg is a freelancing scientist, a big name in all the colonies for his work with reptiles. Hart is the public relations officer for the entire ship. Vansten owns most of the ship, or what little isn’t still under pay by some government agency. It’s crazy that he-

Winchell interrupts his train of thought.

“An extensive background check is not all that we have on the agenda for this meeting, and despite what John thinks-” here she shoots an icy glare at the man- “we are nowhere near conclusion. We have asked about you. Now we will tell you about us.”

Carlos nods slightly. “There were, ah, some things about the station not explicitly covered in the file, and I haven’t yet gone down to one of the labs to dig through the system for data.”

Winchell steeples her hands together, peering at him skeptically over the triangle of her bony fingers. “That is one of the reasons you are here.”

“.....I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

"Your file shows an incredible talent not only with creating and building artificial intelligence systems but also with encryption. Over the course of the years- this vessel is old, you must understand- over the course of the years, files has gone missing. The information we gave you is more or less all that we have. I doubt the gaps in our database is intended or malicious, but there is only so much room for human error when it regards for the lives of millions of people and the uncountable sums of money put forth in designing and running the station and its AIs.”

Oh.

Oh _god_.

His heart flutters uncomfortably in his throat, and his palms are damp. He wipes them on his slacks. “How... much is missing?”

Her answer is as succinct as one could get: a shrug.

“Wait. Wait, wait. You mean you don’t _know_? You don’t even know how much you don’t know?”

They’re on a giant, slowly moving planetoid holding millions of people and trillions of dollars worth of investments and projects, run by a frighteningly intelligent android that thought it was a good idea to spout creepy praise in the news broadcast and they don’t even know how much they don’t know about the station.  
That’s such utter bullshit Carlos half expects to see the room break out into laughter, see a camera crew dash in, _surprise_ , _you’ve been punk’d_. The alternative is unthinkable- the ship is so automated, so intimately tied with its artificial systems and their data that it seems like a sick joke to leave them lacking and to not even understand the scope of the problem?

 _Awful_.

“Most of what it seems we are missing is genesis.” Winchell chews her lower lip, eyes narrowed at the table top. “The man I took over from was not exactly... clear in his executive order, and for a while I assumed what we could not access had been purposefully hidden or encrypted by the EarthGov sector that funded the original concept. But then it seemed more and more data was missing on the ship, on Cecil and Kevin, on the people who worked on these projects- I’m not _stupid_ , Zambada. I understand how big of an issue that is, which is why I need you to fix it.”

“I.... Okay. I will take a look at what I can, but if there isn’t anything there- if the data is gone entirely, I’m not sure how good a help I can be.”

She grants him a sharp smile. “I saw the work you did in Russia. You have my full confidence.”

That sounds a bit too much like a threat for his liking.

“Mrs. Winchell, perhaps it would be prudent to show Dr. Zambada the physical copies of the drives?”

This comes from Eisenberg, sitting tall in his hoverchair halfway down the table.

“Physical copies?”

“Yes. We have a building in the Polis sector used more or less as a physical city hall, holding physical copies of all of the permanent records of the ship as well as a casual library with digital and hard copies of a few hundred thousand books.” She’s cleaning up the mess of papers now, putting his life story back into its half dozen manilla folders. “Harlan, I want you to bring Zambada up to the Pelis.”

Looks like it’s time to go.

Thank god. 

* * *

 

Admiral Earl Harlan is the man Winchell did not introduce and Carlos isn’t sure exactly why that is but there’s something about the guy that seems off, like maybe he’s used to being ignored and pushed into the background, but maybe he’s running a secret drug ring and deals cocaine to half the people aboard ship from a strip club under the engine rooms.

You never really know.

During the meeting he hadn’t really paid much attention to the guy- he hadn’t uttered a word, kept his eyes on the table and his hands in his lap.  
He’s gorgeous. Moonlit skin dotted with golden freckles and a shock of red hair, he’s the picture of the strong and silent type. His eyes are strange and they remind Carlos of cut rubies, of glittering pomegranate seeds; he’s pretty sure they’re cybernetic implants in a weird, mismatched red and black. Earl is dressed oddly too, in unfamiliar silver half armor at the shoulders and arms accented here and there with little flashes of violet and the occasional red insignia of security. Four silver stars are pinned to his uniform.

Despite his gargantuan boots the admiral walks with less thumping than anyone he’s not so far; the guy moves that the cat, all unconscious, wary grace, and Carlos can’t help but feel a little clunky next him as they enter a small elevator.

“I have a question."

Earl inclines his head.

“Uh. One of your men, uh, Steve Carlsberg?”

The smallest of smiles quirks of the man’s lips as he half turns to face him. “Yes, he’s always like that. Yes, he hates C. E. C. I. L. and no, it’s nothing personal.” Earl cocks his head to the side, giving Carlos long, contemplative look. “No, you won’t be able to change his mind."

The trip to Pelis goes smoothly, all things considered. There are hundreds of people, some in uniform (the symbol for the political sector is something like a snake, curling over itself half a dozen times) and some without, shuffling around in civilian clothing on errands with files and folders and briefcases and handbags. Here and there are Earl’s subordinates speckled through the crowd in a way that looks random but to Carlos’ eye is something like an unpatterned pattern; it’s his job to see systems in chaos, though, so he can’t know for certain except he does and it makes him smile faintly, because it’s a good system and everyone seems pretty well looked after.

Earl leads him through the massive building, through side rooms and private employee hallways until they reach what appears to be a library except instead of books every shelf is filled with small black boxes.

"Here we are. The official records room. All data can be accessed here through the hard copies.”

Carlos cranes his head, trying to peer beyond the far shelves; it seems endless. “Wow,” he says. “This place is huge.”

“The ship- namely C. E. C. I. L.- stores hundreds and thousands of units of data this is updated every single day so you can imagine that we have a lot store even though it does take up space. I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a zettabyte of information in here.”

That’s an insanely large amount of information even for the ship the size of it takes Carlos a second to swallow that–the fact that this place holds more data than he’s probably ever seen in his entire life which is considerable and also kind of frightening and not palm sweaty polls putting in your chest kind of way so he has to take a few breaths to make sure that he’s going to be alright. This is libraries and data library the palm libraries.

“You can see here the beginning we were using the old form storage, with little chips-they’ll start to the side over here-” Earl gestures somewhere to their left and then continues. “But we switched over to the nanotech back in- oh, many years ago. Every record of any occurrence on the ship is stored here any shipments any products, employee and resident records, every experiment that’s ever occurred onboard. I’m pleased to say that we have an extensive collection of other media as well, although I don’t think the digital library itself is stored here.”

“Wow…” is all he can say.

Earl just nods.

It’s rather conflicting; part of Carlos feels like a small child at Christmas running downstairs wide-eyed to see snow beyond the living room glass and a pile of presents beneath the tree. It’s cause to celebrate. It’s a beautiful thing.

The rest of him is absolutely terrified, because he can’t think of anything else on earth or otherwise that’s simply that massive and for a moment he wonders if this is what Jonah felt trapped inside the belly of the whale, looking up at the walls of its stomach with the epiphany of just how tiny he was clamped between his teeth. 

* * *

 

“Is is... it is broken?”

They’re standing before one of the entrances to the lower labs, frowning at the scanner set into the wall and wondering why the hell it’s not accepting Earl’s security pass.

“I really have no idea,” Earl replies, frowning faintly at the pad.

They were a fairly old invention- not really an invention so much as the combination of half a dozen other inventions, tying on every b-list sci-fi movie’s attempt at a spacey-looking communications mediator, though to Carlos they always seemed nothing much more than a fancier version of the buzzers people installed outside of huge apartment complexes back on Earth. You pushed a button, reached an apartment. If the occupant was home, they might answer, and your face would pop up on a little screen so they could be sure you didn’t look to scruffy. At least, that was the idea.

Ship standard wall mounted compads worked about the same, except the connection wasn’t so spread- only one occupant to dial, and the receiving end was also broadcasted to the screen. Each interaction was probably also recorded and stored by C. E. C. I. L.

“I could, um, I could take a look at it I guess- I mean, it’s not exactly my area but there’s only so diverse electronics can get...”

Earl nods and he’s just reaching out to touch the thing when the blank screen crackles to like and he hears Earl hiss softly through his teeth.

“Hell _o_ , Eeeearl,”

The admiral seems to stand taller, his shoulders shifting back and his strange eyes narrowing at the man on the screen; he smiles sweetly and it’s hard to tell through the video- the little office in which he sits seems oddly colored, as if the whole seen is overlayed by a fait yellow filter, but his eyes are patterned black and green, emerald to Earl’s ruby. They must be either very close siblings, or twins.

“Good morning, General Harlan,” he says formally. “There’s a problem with the compad, can you let us in? Dr. Zambada is here to tour the lower laboratories.”

“Oh, it’s not broken,” the man sighs. “Walker was debating whether to let you in or not.”

“Ed, I would appreciate it if you would open the door. We have work to do- a schedule to upkeep, if you don’t mind.”

“Listen we’re really busy in here, all kinds of classified projects going on that I don’t think should be interrupted.” Ed really does look apologetic and he’s not sure if he’s just being an ass because Earl’s his brother or if the Strex labs really can’t handle the intrusion of two men and a glance at Earl gives nothing away besides the fact that the admiral is irked down to his freckles.

Then he sees a flicker in the corner of the screen, the edge of a dark suit and gold-lined fingers and a voice sneering: “Oh, you might as well lock them out and turn off the lights while you’re at it, we don’t need them crawling around the labs like little insects” and Carlos is totally out of his depth and a pale flush begins to color Earl’s high cheeks and he does the only thing he can think to do, which his grab his badge from one of his coat pockets, step neatly around the admiral, and get up close and personal with the camera.

“Hello. My name is Dr. Carlos Zambada. I was flown in yesterday and am now in charge of C. E. C. I. L. and his program,” he says in a rush, holding his badge before the compad. His hands only tremble a little bit- the off-screen man is now full in view, narrowing his eyes at the feed as if he can’t believe what he sees. Believe it, fucker. “That means that I am the person with the most influence over the artificial intelligence unit running roughly ninety precent of this vessel’s functions. It is imperative that I know all parts of this ship because any misdirection on my part leaves thirty six million people at best without power and at worst, without vital signs. Is that understood?”

Earl blinks in surprise. Ed frowns. Walker glares.

Carlos steps back from the compad, tucks away his badge, and waits.

The feed cuts off, and moments later, the door hisses open.

* * *

So it seems this whole ordeal is a hell of a lot worse than he thought it was; insubordination and lost files and frighteningly invasive omniscient robots. Huff.

The lower labs were odd after the clean, well-managed spaces of C. E. C. I. L.’s sector; everything was vaguely yellow and emblazoned with faint golden logos, stylized triangles and staring eyes and slippery S symbols he assumes stand for Strex. Luckily Ed and Walker are elsewhere in the facility- actually, there aren’t many personal down here.

They walk together in silence for several minutes, their travel marked only by the rows of glowing yellow lights above and the low tapping of their boots on the spotless tile.

“Why is it that Cecil couldn’t just let us in?” Carlos asks, feeling more than a little nervous. It seems odd to him when the robot controls almost every part of the ship that they had to wait on the commands of someone inside to access K. E. V. I. N.’s facilities.

Earl made a face. “It’s a matter of politics” he replies after a second. “Cecil has the capability and indeed the rank to open any door on the ship, but StrexCorp employees would probably take that as an offense. They see themselves as very much a separate, unattached part of the ship.” The admiral sighs softly. “The whole thing is rather childish- this place is one enormous security screwup. Cecil doesn’t even have access to any of of his cameras down here, because they represent a risk to the sensitive investment.”

“Oh.”

Silence stretches between the two.

Luckily it’s not uncomfortable. Earl seems used to quiet. Carlos is trying not to sink into the terror clawing in his stomach.

When they were up in the Pelis sector Earl seemed to know where to go well enough; he might have some sort of map overlay in his eyes or just a fairly detailed knowledge of the ship’s layout which was more than useful when Earl also had a security pass to get the pretty much anywhere onboard.

He doesn’t seem to know the lower labs as well, and they continue down that same hall for what feels like a very long time, long enough for Carlos to realize that it curves slightly, conforming to the shape of the ship’s outer walls.

Eventually the admiral takes a sharp left and they enter another hall. This one’s lined with doors: LAB 1, LAB 2, LAB 3- they span as far as he can see. The first one is unlocked, little lights around its pad glowing bright, cheerful green.

It’s filled with tables in two neat rows and a sort of isle in the middle. A line of computers spans one wall and the opposite is imbedded with large digital white boards covered in pulsing blueprints and chemical formulas, annotated in a messy, unfamiliar scrawl. The room is completely spotless, devoid of the stacks of notes and bags and general clutter the interns leave in the labs on their lunchbreaks, but that’s not what draws Carlos’ attention.  
It’s what’s on the tables that really catches his eye.

The one closest to the door holds a tub of clear plastic filled halfway the cloudy amber fluid.

It also looks like it’s filled with a bundle of ropey intestines. The one beyond that is filled with strips of flesh, red muscle patterned with shiny silver sheaths. At least three bins are growing skin.

The tables beyond that hold more of the same, more tubs of fluid and organs- the whole place smells like the bad side of a hospital, like disinfectant and formaldehyde and faintly, blood. And Carlos is sure that he’s going to throw up if he doesn’t leave right now.

“Jesus”

Earl has taken a step forward and he peers into the neared tub with an expression of distaste. He seems to take it better. “What is this?”

It takes him a minute to remember how to speak.

“I don’t really know,” Carlos replies, covering his mouth with one hand. The smell is awful. “I guess-” He returns his gaze to the digital boards, scanning the blueprints and sketches. “It looks like some sort of biotechnology, perhaps in the very early stages of development. And I mean that- very early. This looks almost unprofessionally done.” Earl gives him an odd, questioning look and Carlos can only grimace. “I don’t know why it’s exposed here. I mean, I’m just a computer guy, I just build robots. But there’s such a huge risk of contamination, of drying out... it almost looks like there’s something growing in the water, but I guess I can’t know for sure without knowing what’s supposed to be in it.”

A door opens on the far end of the lab and a man steps out; for a second Carlos thinks it’s Walker and he swallows hard, but though he looks similar this man seems... younger. Nicer, maybe. He smiles slightly as he shuts the door.

“These are the experimental biotech labs. Or, one of them.” The newcomer makes his way up the center isle and pauses by one of the bin to peer inside. “This is where we manufacture the organic material we need for all of our other projects.”

“Which are?” Earl asks.

The man clasps his hands behind his back as he steps towards them. “Classified.” The admiral makes as if to argue, but he just raises one hand to quiet him. “Access is limited by the request of the company, which provides the money we need to make this work possible. It is a small price to pay- when the project is complete records will be released for public and private access.”

He doesn’t stop there. The guy introduces himself as Diego, and goes on to apologize for Walker’s behavior. It turns out they’re brothers. It also turns out that nearly everyone in the labs overheard the interaction.

Diego is smooth and suave and serene, leading them from lab to lab and explaining a little of what research was conducted down there beyond the public eye. There’s more to learn by looking around than through what he says, though; the man seems to have talent in subtleties, hiding truths behind half-truths.  
Not all of the projects are biological. There seems to be an extensive collection of robotics, some older models being refurbished, some sparkling chrome affairs sporting the newest tech. One section seems to contain nothing but old cars. He’s not really sure what that’s about and Diego offers no explanation, just smiles enigmatically as they pass through.

After what seems like dozens and dozens of rooms and labs and long, brightly lit halls, Diego leaves them at the door they came in, presses a card into Carlos’ palm, and wanders off. “Wonderful company,” he says. “Keep in touch. I’d love to compare our boys sometime, hmmm?”

* * *

  
He doesn’t officially start work until the next day. The monthly inspection is at the end of the week- he has that long to adjust to the job and learn every in and out of the robot of his charge but Carlos feels sort of drained so he thanks Earl for the tour, agrees that the Strex sector is weird, and heads back to his room.

The commpad’s screen inside his apartment shows another message.

 **[ALERT: DR. C. ZAMBADA]**  
Do hope you are getting along well, my dear. It’s been so long since we’ve had someone of your caliber at the station. We’ll be in touch.   
        -J

  
Carlos dismisses the alert, and through it’s barely past noon, slinks off to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very good at beginning chapters and I'm terribly sorry if this one comes out a little dry and boring. ^^ I like action better.
> 
> I also like Earl Harlan, in case you haven't noticed.
> 
> More to come, and hopefully soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Gratuitous thanks expressed to [freedomconvicted](http://freedomconvicted.tumblr.com) for spawning the cybervale craze with art and a backstory partially used to compose the mythos of this alternate universe, as well as to the lovely [arachnescurse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hubris_And_Crafts) for sparking skype conversations and encouragement.


End file.
